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It’s 85 degrees outside, and the air in this old office isn’t what you’d call “top notch”, so my shirt is sticking to my chair, and my shirt sleeve is stained with forehead sweat. I walked in, sat down, and the heat made me sick within minutes. I’ve been up to empty my guts 3 times since 8AM, and it’s not even lunchtime yet. To make matters worse, the bathroom is right behind our offices most populated set of cubicles, so whenever I must go, everybody sees me get up, walk over to the bathroom, disappear for 10 minutes, only to return looking like I just finished a few rounds in the ring. Repeat this 3-6 times daily, and I’m sure everybody is disgusted by me. I wash my hands, and come in wearing decent enough clothes, and shower and have deodorant and brush my teeth, etc. etc. However, all of that is thrown out the window the second you notice the fat little Asian of the office seems to be taking enough shits for everyone on the payroll. At first, people will chalk it up to being lazy, thinking I must be wasting time on my phone, texting friends, browsing social media, playing Pokémon Go like a true American. That line of thinking evaporates quickly the second somebody talks to me though, as it becomes painfully obvious just how socially inept I really am. My co-workers quickly come to the conclusion that I’m not wasting my time on my phone in there, because it’s impossible that I could be holding a conversation with another human being, even if it was just a Facebook post or a stupid tweet. No, this…person? Yeah, I guess I’d still be considered a person. Anyway, the barely person that I am is either shitting their brains out (true), or using alone time in the stall to cry where nobody can see, giving her the strength to get back out there for at least 45 minutes before her next mental breakdown (also true). What can I say, I’m a multitasker? Between the heat, diarrhea and a lifetime of self-loathing, my body can shift from raging volcano to bottomless Antarctic pit in a matter of milliseconds.

At the beginning of the Summer, my office hired interns. We hired young, attractive, high school interns. They all sit together, and they all do the same thing (nothing, because what high school junior knows enough about anything to be able to offer any help to anybody?). I sound mean because I’m bitter. Honestly, they are nice kids. They got here 2 weeks ago, and they try. I’ve shown 2 of them a few tricks with Microsoft Excel, and traded 1 of them 4 quarters for a ripped dollar bill that our vending machine wouldn’t take. Aside from those 2 moments, and introductions when they all started, I haven’t spoken a word to these kids. And I’m not just saying that, I’ve counted, because that’s what I do. I am so self-conscience about everything that is me, that I know exactly how many times I’ve spoken to everybody in my office. Aside from my boss, that number doesn’t exceed 2 digits for anybody. It’s all my fault as well. When I started, people tried talking to me, made attempts to help me “fit in”, but within the course of 1 or 2 conversations they realized the folly of their ways, and thus my self-induced work isolation cycle began anew. Back to the interns; they aren’t bad, and I don’t think they want to hurt my feelings, but they are still in high school, and what high schooler could resist making fun of such an easy target? They weren’t being loud or spreading rumors around the office. They weren’t even being pointed about it; I probably only noticed because I’m special tuned to pick up any and all negative things said about me, along with being able to filter anything positive into something neutral or negative. So, these high school kids see me coming out of the bathroom for the 4th time today. It’s 2:14PM, and I haven’t finished any of my work for the day, and my nose is all runny and gross and I know I’m sniffling so much it must be disgusting to have to hear, and I barely catch it, and I could just ignore it, but it’s me, so that’s not actually an option. My ears are advanced radars, and what they pick up…it’s really just laughter, right? It doesn’t have to be about me, right? But I can’t block out the words. I want to block out the words, but I can’t. It’s not even that mean, really. I already know my sniffling is gross, so the suggestion that I learn how to use a tissue is actually just good life advice. My body is a science experiment gone horribly wrong, so pointing out that so many trips to the bathroom in a day means I must really eat some terrible shit at home is 100% accurate. And yes, my hair is rather ugly when I wear it short. And yes, it was much better last week when my long hair covered my gigantic ears. And of course, it should go without saying, but they say it all the same! I must live alone, because who could put up with my painful, disgusting, awkward ass! They might be kids, but they have eyes that work just fine, and they aren’t afraid to call it like they see it. And like I said, they didn’t say this at a volume where they knew I could hear it. And what they did say was actually rather tame versus what I’m used to from high school kids. But my broken ass body reacts before I can stop it. My empty stomach drops down to my knees, and I become aware of how much oxygen I’m wasting on my fast breathing. My arms start to shake a little, then a lot, and then I have to stop typing or writing, and I do my best to keep my these fists from punching myself silly. I feel my body collapsing in on itself in an attempt to shrink the target that is me, but I’m unable to forget my own mass, and I can’t stop starring at the rolls on my stomach as my head flirts with banging into my desk. But the worst of it is that slow creeping chill. It’s born from my chest, and it eats through my veins, swallowing blood and shitting out reminders of every little fucking thing I hate about myself. The sensation creeps through my arms, and all of my scars start screaming in unison, and I’m embarrassed! I’m so fucking embarrassed! I’m so sure that everybody can see them, even though I put so much effort into hiding them! Even though I always remember to wear long sleeves everywhere I do! Even though I’ve tried every scar cream known to man to get them to fade! But what good will hiding, or covering, or even erasing them do, when I keep adding to my collection! And just as that realization leaves me feeling naked, the cold flushes through my back and legs and head, and I shiver like I’m building a snowman in my birthday suit, and I have to stop, I have to find some way to stop, just stop me, just stop everything that is me. I need to grab the scissors in my desk, bang it into the wall, and throw myself head first into those blades. I need to throw my chair through the window at the end of the hallway and follow it down, straight into the parking lot pavement. I need to run back into the factory, find the largest, most dangerous looking piece of equipment, and do whatever it takes to get it to kill me. Fucking kill me. I fucking need to die, right fucking now. God, I can’t take this anymore, not for another second, I can’t handle it. I can’t handle life, I never wanted to live, I never wanted to be this fucking thing that I am. Please, I just need to die. I want to die. Kill me. Fucking let me die…please…

The overwhelming urge to commit suicide fades along with the chills, but only to a tolerable level, and only to a level I would describe as tolerable. It’s roughly 2-4 minutes of me at my desk, hoping nobody walks by to see me silently freaking out. After 5 minutes, I’m calm enough to be my normal, awful self. Of course, I’m just repressing my feelings, so I already know when I get home shits gonna hit the fan. But I’m used to this. It used to be a once in a while sort of deal. Then it grew into a monthly deal. And from monthly to weekly, and weekly to daily. Yes, this is an everyday thing. Honestly I’m happy if it only happens once a day. I’ve literally run out of fresh skin to scar, so I’m overlapping, creating patchworks to replace those solid, parallel lines. I’ve run out of skin, and patience, and any sense of self-love…no, I’ve just ran out of any sort of love at all…

I always told myself that a life without love isn’t a life worth living. I’m finding out that’s 100% not true. My life wasn’t worth living long before I ran out of love. Now that I’m out of love, I’ve just become a ghost. I want to die, but I can’t kill myself. I want to kill myself, but I’m afraid to die. I thought that if I had nothing left to love, I wouldn’t care if I died. Turns out, if you have no more love, you have nothing left to fight away the fear. And I’ve been out of love long enough to be neck high in fear…and I keep hoping that the fear will keep growing, eventually letting me drown. But I know fear…it won’t ever let me die…it will keep me on the brink, keep me begging, but it won’t let go…

I hate this…but it’s all my doing…I destroyed all of my love, instead feeding all of my fears. This is what I am now; fear is all I have.

Published by taylorfinn0810

I believe all people are bits and pieces, and throughout life we can gather pieces from others or give some of ours away. Some people are only out to take everything they can, while others will give until they have nothing left, but most of us fall in between. And yet there are those people who will defy all logic and simply toss there pieces into the trash, for nobody and nothing at all. I don't know if it's possible to get back those pieces that have been thrown away, but this blog is all about my journey, to try and find out if someone who threw away everything for nothing can find something, or anything at all...I'm just looking for a reason to keep on living.
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